LOCH LOMOND.
��WHILE down the lake s translucent" tide With gently curving course we glide, Its silver ripples, faint and few, Alternate blend with belts of blue, As fleecy clouds, on pinions white, Careering fleck the welkin bright.
But lo ! Ben Lomond s awful crown Through shrouding mists looks dimly down ; For though, perchance, his piercing eye Doth read the secrets of the sky, His haughty bosom scorns to show Those secrets to the world below.
Close-woven shades, with varying grace, And crag and cavern mark his base, And trees, whose naked roots protrude From bed of rock and lichens rude ; And where, mid dizzier cliffs are seen Entangled thickets sparsely green, Methinks I trace, in outline drear, Old Fingal with his shadowy spear,
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